


In the Dark

by Thistlerose



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Awkward Romance, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-22
Updated: 2014-07-22
Packaged: 2018-02-09 23:43:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,224
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2002575
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thistlerose/pseuds/Thistlerose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written in 2005.  Set during the summer after <i>Order of the Phoenix.</i>  Hermione goes to visit Ron at the Burrow and ... they fumble awkwardly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In the Dark

“It’s cooler up in the attic,” Ron said, pushing open the trapdoor and leading the way. “Easier to think. If the ghoul shuts up, I mean.” He said the last part loudly, and deep in the darkness there was a clattering of pipes, then silence.

Hermione climbed the last few rungs, and hoisted herself into the attic, her rucksack bumping the edges of the opening in the floor.

“I’m looking for the light,” Ron said, somewhere to her left. “Wish we could use magic at home. Can’t seem to –“ There was a crash. “Bollocks.”

Disoriented by the darkness, after the Burrow’s well-lit room and corridors, Hermione remained on her knees for a few moments. She twisted her hair and piled it high on her head, so she could feel the cool, slightly stale air on the back of her neck.

“Still can’t find it,” Ron muttered. “Should’ve brought – “ There was another crash, and a thud.

“Are you all right?” Hermione called.

“Yeah,” came the somewhat shaky reply. “Just tripped over....” There was a faint rattling. “Feels like a clock. Er, I hope it was already broken before I knocked it over. Don’t move; I’ll find the light.”

“No,” Hermione said, “don’t. You might break something, or hurt yourself, and really, this is all right.”

She let her hair fall back; frizzy strands immediately curled around her ears and clung to her sweat-slicked neck and shoulders. She put her hands out in front of her and crawled forward slowly, until she found the frayed edge of a leather-bound trunk. She used it to push herself up, then sat down on it, took her rucksack off her back, and clutched it in her lap.

“Where are you?” she asked. “There’s a trunk. Can you—“

Something large bumped into the trunk, jostling Hermione.

“Think I just did,” came Ron’s voice. “Er—“ He grabbed a fistful of her hair, and she yelped. “Sorry,” he mumbled, letting go. “I just—“ He bumped the trunk again. “Okay, it’s—“

She twisted round, and groped until she caught a fold of his t-shirt, then yanked him down beside her. He landed rather gracelessly, but then they were sitting together, and she knew where his shoulder was by the tingle along her cheekbone, and if she shifted ever so slightly…yes, there was his bony thigh beside hers.

“Something tickles,” Ron muttered. “Better be your hair.”

“It’s everywhere,” Hermione admitted. “It’s always like this in the summer, especially when it’s humid.” He knew that. Why was she telling him something he already knew?

“Listen,” Ron said abruptly. “You can hear the storm.”

“I can _feel_ the storm,” Hermione whispered. And she could, through the thinly insulated roof. The air billowed and roiled fitfully, and every few minutes the Burrow groaned as thunder rumbled around it. “When I was little,” she said at length, her voice hushed, “my dad and I used to sit on the front steps outside our house and count the seconds between the lightning and the thunder. That’s how we knew how far away the storm was. We can’t see the lightning from here, of course, though I can almost feel that, too…”

She realized as soon as the words tumbled from her mouth that it wasn’t the lightning causing her skin to tingle, but Ron’s proximity. She realized as well how completely inane she sounded, but she continued to babble. She couldn’t see Ron, but she was aware of the sharp angles of shoulder, elbow, and hip, and the worn-sweaty scent of his t-shirt, and peppermint breath fanning her cheek, which meant he was bent close, and…

And. If she turned her head just a little, his breath would fan her lips. And if she tilted her head back a shallow angle, if he did not pull away, their lips would meet.

She went on somewhat shrilly, “And I used to shout, ‘science quiz’! And he would ask me questions. My dad, I mean. About science. Biology, mostly. There were textbooks from when – oh, biology, it means – “

“I know what it means,” Ron said. “I’m not stupid.”

“Yes,” said Hermione, “of course. I mean no, you’re not. I know that.” What was she doing? She’d come here to talk to Ron about Harry, and she was prattling about her childhood, and Ron was just sitting there listening, and thinking she thought he was an idiot, when actually, he’d done quite well on his OWLs, and –

“Hermione,” Ron said. His words buzzed along her jaw.

She’d never thought he was an idiot. Truly never. A bit daft at times, but he was a _boy_ ; it was expected of him. His breath tickled her cheek. Her gaze swept to the only source of light in the attic, which was the trapdoor.

“Mmf,” Ron said. “Got a mouthful of your hair.”

“Well, if you’d just,” Hermione began again, not quite sure where her thought was headed, but desperate to say _something_ because his lips had just been touching her hair, and his breath was beginning to move through her the way the thunder was moving through the Burrow.

It did not help her think clearly when he gathered her hair in his hands and began to brush it off her neck. Did not help at all when his callused fingertips grazed her skin. She clutched her rucksack, and stared at the square of light until her eyes ached.

“Hermione,” Ron said, “what are we going to do about Harry?”

But she wasn’t here because of Harry. They could have discussed Harry anywhere, Hermione realized. By Floo, or by owl post. She’d come to the Burrow this stormy afternoon to see _Ron_ , and she’d climbed that rickety ladder and crawled into this dark attic so she could be alone in the dark with _him_.

Hermione turned again, and tilted her head back, and bumped her lips clumsily against his chin. “Oh,” she stammered, as flames crept up her cheeks. “Um.” She bit her lip. “Anyway, about…you know…Harry…”

Ron still had one hand in her hair. He should have let go by now, Hermione thought. Instead, he pulled her closer, and then it was lips touching hers, and peppermint breath, and suddenly there were a million new things to think about, none of which had anything to do with Harry.

Like the planes of his face, which had made so much sense when she’d studied them with her eyes, but which now seemed ridiculously complicated as she explored them with her lips. She’d given his lips a great deal of thought as well, but she was unprepared for the way they parted against hers, for the rush of his breath, and the flick of his tongue. Their noses kept bumping, which made her giggle.

“Should I be worried that you’re laughing?” Ron asked, sounding nervous.

“No,” she insisted. “No. Um, maybe if you…” She found his cheek with her palm, and splayed her fingers so she had some control over which way his head tilted. “There.” She kissed his chin again, deliberately, then worked her way back up to his lips, which curved upward at the corners, and parted again, and this time it was a bit better.

_Quite_ a bit.

When they pulled apart again, the dark attic air seemed to crackle around them.

“So,” Hermione said breathlessly.

“So,” echoed Ron.  



End file.
